


love at first sight

by sacrebleu0



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Love Potion/Spell, M/M, simon is a cuddler
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-10-24 19:47:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17710448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sacrebleu0/pseuds/sacrebleu0
Summary: "Love at first sight": a spell favored by second- and third-year students at Watford around Valentine's Day that makes the target become infatuated with whomever he sees first. It becomes physically painful to be apart from the target, but thankfully, the spell only lasts twenty-four hours.However, when someone casts "Love at first sight" on Simon and he becomes infatuated with Baz, nobody knows what to expect due to the fickle nature of his magic. Simon gets lucky-it wears off after the twenty-four hour period. The issue is, he doesn't want it to. One white lie leads into a month-long Mage-led investigation into how love spells affect Simon, and everything spirals out of control faster than he could ever have expected.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Valentine's Day, everyone!

**SIMON**

 

    Bright light finally persuaded Simon to wake up, and his heavy eyelids opened hesitantly. He blinked a few times, still adjusting sleep-sensitive eyes, and yawned. What time was it? Did he sleep in again? His mouth felt dry and his joints stiff, like he had slept for far too long. (It happened more often than he wanted.) (Baz never woke him up for class, though, even when he was going to be super late.) (Tosser.) A relentless migraine pulsed in his right temple, making him wince.

    “He’s awake, Nurse,” the voice of Penny came from next to him.

    Nurse? Penny?

    His eyes flew open and he took in his surroundings for the first time. As expected, he was in the infirmary--not an uncommon experience--and Penny was sitting next to his bed. He sat up, thankful he wasn’t wearing the gross gown they sometimes made him wear when he was really injured, and pressed a hand to his throbbing forehead. He reached for the glass of water on the cart next to him, and Penny handed it to him. He took a sip, grateful for the cold water on his parched throat, and rasped, “What’s happened?”

    Penelope gave him a sympathetic look. “The nurse can probably explain better than I can.”

    A shot of fear shot through Simon’s chest. If the headache was anything to go by, he probably got into a huge fight. He felt around his eyes and was glad that they weren’t swollen like they were when he had a black eye. If it wasn’t a fight, then what was it?

    The nurse, a short, portly woman, entered with a cart of sundry medical supplies. “Hello, Simon, I’m glad you’re awake,” she greeted brightly. She offered him a scone, saying, “Here, you must be starving.”

    Simon gratefully took it and handed Penny the now-empty water glass and devoured it ravenously. He cleared his throat. “What happened?” he asked again.

    The nurse shot Penny a look. “First, let me take your vitals.” She retrieved a thermometer from the cart and placed it under Simon’s tongue, marking the result on her clipboard as he squirmed. She took his heart rate and blood pressure quietly, only engendering more anxiety in his chest. The silence was driving him insane, but not as insane as Penny’s lack of eye contact. What could he have possibly done to make everything this awkward?

    The nurse jotted more things down on her clipboard, and Simon couldn’t take it anymore. “Tell me what happened,” he pleaded.

    She sighed and turned back to him, refusing to meet his eyes. “Well, during breakfast this morning, someone played a cruel prank on you.”

    “Get on with it,” he urged, biting one of his nails to the quick.

    “To be frank,” she began, taking a deep breath, “someone cast a **Love at first sight** on you. I’m sure you’re familiar with its effects.”

    Oh, _great_ . **Love at first sight** had been banned at Watford for far longer than Simon had been going there, yet it was still particularly popular among second- and third-years around Valentine’s day since it was notoriously impossible to tell who cast it and hilarious to watch the outcome. It did what it said on the tin--caused the poor victim to become infatuated with whatever person he laid eyes on next. It lasted for at most twenty-four hours, and made the victim crave physical affection with whoever he saw. Supposedly, at least; Simon had been fortunate enough to have never been under the spell’s influence, until now. That would explain his wicked migraine, though...

    “Brilliant. Who’s the poor sucker I’m stuck with? Penny? Gareth? Agatha?” The thought of it being Agatha made him wince internally. They broke up less than a week ago, and Agatha had been avoiding him like the plague. Having to be in close proximity with her for twenty-four hours would be excruciatingly tense.

    “I’m afraid you haven’t been as lucky,” the nurse laughed tersely.

    “Then...” Simon began, and even he could connect the dots. “No bloody way,” he whispered. It couldn’t be. No way.

    “It’s Baz,” Penny interrupted, taking pity on him and confirming his worst fears.

    “Of fucking course.” He ran a hand through his tangled, sweaty hair and the memory came flooding back to him.

 

* * *

 

    Simon ran down to the dining hall twenty minutes later than usual since Baz took extra time in the bathroom that morning. ( _“Are you wanking in there or something? Hurry up,”_ he shouted, banging on the door impatiently. _“Piss off, it’s called basic fucking hygiene,”_ Baz yelled in response.) He only had ten minutes to eat breakfast as opposed to his usual thirty--the easiest way to put him in a shite mood.

    As he walked into the dining hall, still breathing heavily, he passed Baz’s table. “Don’t strain yourself too hard, Snow,” Baz taunted.

    “It’s your fault, arsehole,” Simon seethed. “If you weren’t such a princess in the mornings, I’d be able to get down here on time.”

    “Princess?” Baz scoffed, standing to face him. (Simon hated when he did that. He had to look up to meet his eyes, and it felt like Baz was just trying to flaunt his extra three inches of height or some similarly stupid shit.) “It’s not my fault you’re too lazy to get up earlier.”

    “Listen here, tosser--” Simon started, taking a step closer, before an instant searing pain shot through his brain like a poison-tipped arrow. His vision danced and turned hot pink, and he felt his eyes flutter shut and his weight sway on his feet. Suddenly his mouth became full of cotton and his knees turned to jelly, and before he could stop himself, he felt himself fall forward against his will.

    Before he could hit the ground, he fell into a hard yet soft mass. Waves of warmth radiated off of the mass and washed over his skin, making him gasp and melt into the sensation. The feeling was absolutely overwhelming--like the drop on a roller coaster, or winning a game of rugby, or crawling into his bed at Watford after a horrible summer at some shite foster home. Whatever it was, he grabbed at it and pulled it closer.

    “Snow?”

    Shit.

    The mysterious mass was a highly confused Baz, his arms raised in surprise.

    “S-Sorry.” Simon opened his eyes and stumbled backwards, but as soon as he released Baz’s sweater, icy dullness filled his body like the warmth did just seconds before. Separating felt like pulling apart two poles of a magnet, like he was being pulled back in despite his protests. Despite himself, he was flooded with the desire to fall back into his arms, to never let go and let the heat fill him once more.

    “Are you feeling alright?” asked Baz, his voice higher than normal.

    “I’m feeling fucking splendid,” slurred Simon, before falling backwards and promptly passing out.

 

* * *

 

    Just remembering the euphoric feeling of falling into Baz was enough to make him shiver. Wait, what the fuck was he _thinking?_

    “Since you’re kind of a special case, Simon, we don’t know exactly how it will affect you. Your magic is so strong and fickle, it might be more or less effective on you than the average person. We have no idea how adverse the reason might be. I’d advise you work out an arrangement with Mr. Pitch,” explained the nurse.

    Simon scoffed. An “arrangement” with Baz? As if. Typical “arrangements” worked out during **Love at first sight** comprised of letting the victim cling to the target like Velcro. Baz would never in a million years let Simon so much as hold his hand. If he even tried, Baz would probably behead him and drink his blood, or whatever vampires do. In fact, Baz was probably behind all this, as one of his stupid pranks or whatever. Like the time he pushed him down the stairs, or lured him out to fight the chimera. (There was no way Simon was ever going to survive the next twenty-four hours.)

    “It’s around ten, so third period just started. I’ve excused you for the whole day, but I’d advise you return to class with Penelope. Good luck, Simon,” said the nurse before exiting with her cart, leaving Penny and Simon alone in the infirmary.

    “Some luck you have, Simon,” Penny laughed, standing and dusting off her skirt.

    Despite everything, Simon snickered. “Truly.” He swung his legs over the side of the sterile-white bed, hearing his knees pop and stretching his arms over his head. “I’m half-tempted to go back to my room and sleep for the next twenty-four hours, but I also don’t want the Minotaur to murder me.”

    “C’mon, I’ll walk you to third.” Penny grabbed his hand and helped him up. “I want to make sure you don’t faint again, which, by the way, was hilarious. I didn’t see it happen, but you should’ve seen the first- and second-years. Their eyes were bugging out of their heads like someone had just assassinated the Queen.”

    Simon groaned. “Great. Now everybody’s going to be staring at me all day.” Standing only emphasized how light-headed he felt. He slung his backpack over his shoulder and walked to the door before asking, “What did Baz say?”

    Penny shrugged, following close behind. “Nothing really. Just looked really confused. I don’t blame him, he’s in for a rough day.”

    “ _He’s_ in for a rough day?” Simon retorted, shoving his shaky hands in his pockets. He felt starved despite the scone he ate earlier.

 

* * *

 

    Walking into Greek five minutes late with the equivalent of a magical hangover should be, in Simon’s mind, reserved for the eleventh circle of Hell. The Minotaur didn’t even reprimand him, just gestured to his seat with a silent “welcome, Mr. Snow.” He almost wished that he _had_ reprimanded him; getting pity from the Minotaur was the most unnatural feeling in the world.

    As unobservant as Simon was, he noticed how Baz refused to make eye contact with him as he walked to his seat.

    The entire class, Simon couldn’t focus--not particularly uncommon. He couldn’t focus because he was thinking about Baz--also not uncommon. He was thinking about tackling Baz and cuddling him-- _very_ uncommon. The thought kept running through his head; he had to touch Baz in some way or another as soon as possible. ( _Get your head out of the gutter, Simon,_ he reminded himself.) The concept developed into a series of daydreams: he could punch him, he could tackle him, he could break his nose like Baz did to him, he could grab him in a bear hug, he could take him by the back of his neck and pull him down to his height and snog the life out of him, he could... wait, what?

    If this was what everybody went through when **Love at first sight** was cast on them, he regretted ever making jokes about it. A film of sweat lingered over his entire body and he felt feverish, dizzy, exhausted, like he was going to pass out at any second. His eyes were drawn to Baz, who sat a row ahead of him on the other side of the room. The distance was driving him insane, and he spent the entire class period about to go off. The smell of smoke hung heavy in the air. The tension between his shoulders was driving him mad; he felt like he hadn’t wanked in months, like he hadn’t slept in weeks, like he hadn’t breathed in hours. Every nerve was frazzled and frayed. As much as he hated to admit it, he needed Baz.

    After class ended, Simon shot out the door like a bat out of Hell. There he waited for Baz, who was, of course, the last person out. Typical. “Baz, I need to talk to you,” he mumbled, grabbing his forearm to stop him from walking off. Just that little contact sent a shiver down his spine, making him blush.

    “I’m sure you do,” Baz replied, jerking his arm out of his grip and walking down the hall.

    Simon followed him, roughly clutching his elbow once more and turning him around, slamming him against the wall and pinning him there with his other hand on his shoulder. “Listen to me, Baz,” he growled, magic thrumming in his throat.

    He watched Baz swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and say, “Fine, I’m listening.”

    Simon’s grip softened but didn’t release. “Good. As much as I hate you and you hate me, we have to compromise. I’m going to lose my fucking mind if I have to sit through another class period without...” He couldn’t bring himself to finish his sentence, and thankfully Baz didn’t make him.

    Baz’s bored gaze met his eyes. “What do I get out of it?”

    “What?” Simon asked, flabbergasted.

    “I’ll compromise, if I get something in return.”

    “You fucking--” Simon began, feeling his magic crackling like static in the air. He took a deep breath. Going off would definitely be a bad idea in this situation. He felt the people walking by looking at them, and he took another breath and waited until his magic stabilized to continue. “What do you want?” he settled on.

    He tapped his chin like he was thinking.

    Fucking tosser.

    “Well, I have no idea who did this. So, I need you to help me figure out who did it after this all blows over so I can kick their arse.” Wait, Baz wasn’t behind this? Simon had half-assumed that he did it himself as a kind of prank. Apparently not. “Also, stop whinging about how much time I take in the bathroom in the mornings. If you do that, in the meantime, I’ll... cater to whatever it is you want,” he said, his voice bored as all get out.

    “That’s it?” Simon queried, eyebrows furrowed.

    “Do you want me to ask for more, Snow?” Baz challenged.

    “No, that’s fine. I’ll take that,” Simon assured him, holding one hand out to shake.

    Baz rolled his eyes and shook his hand reluctantly. Simon felt vaguely as if he were making a deal with the devil. “So, what is it you want me to do? Give you butterfly kisses? Braid your hair? Hold your hand?” Baz mocked cruelly.

    Simon looked down at his hands, having abandoned pinning Baz to the wall. “That’d be a start, yes,” he muttered, shame filling his core. This was a cruel fucking prank to play on someone. Baz quirked an eyebrow, looking him up and down as if to ascertain if he was being truthful.

    Simon reached out and laced his fingers between Baz’s, and felt the tension melt away. It wasn’t just pleasurable to have physical contact with Baz, though that it was, it also relieved the pain that was otherwise chronic. His shoulders drooped back down and his jaw unclenched subconsciously. “Thank you,” he mumbled, so quietly he half-hoped Baz wouldn’t be able to hear him. He opened eyes he didn’t realize were closed and looked up at Baz, and was surprised to find a light dusting of pink on his cheeks.

    “We’re going to be late for fourth,” Baz replied, his voice stone-cold. “And what are you going to do in fifth, sixth, and seventh, when we don’t share class?”

    “I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it, but for now, you’re stuck with me. Or, rather, I’m stuck with you,” Simon sighed, pulling Baz off of the wall and wrapping his arm around his. He felt high, floating on air, like each step had no weight to it, his sensations dulled. He leaned on Baz’s shoulder for support, half because he wanted to and half because he was scared he’d fall over if he didn’t.

    Maybe this day could be bearable--at least, if Baz didn’t rip his head off first.

 

**BAZ**

 

    Aleister fucking Crowley.

    As if Baz wasn’t tortured enough. As if making him his roommate for seven-and-a-half fucking years wasn’t enough. As if making him date Wellbelove wasn’t enough. As if making him _straight_ wasn’t enough.

    If Baz was religious, he’d be seriously considering converting right about now.

    He wondered what he did to deserve Simon Snow leaning on his shoulder in the middle of Elocution, holding his hand and tracing circles on his knuckles with his thumb and pressing his too-hot body mass against Baz’s side. He was far too warm, too hot for Baz’s cold, bloodless body. He’d almost be scared he’d be burned if he touched Snow, but he’d been cuddled up to his side for the past half-hour, so he was probably fine for now.

    Whoever fucking cast that spell on Snow was number one on his hit-list, that’s for damn sure. Maybe the person just thought it’d be funny to see rivals Snow-and-Pitch be joined at the hip... or maybe somebody knows about his crush. No, that’s impossible, there’s no way. But what if? What if somebody figured it out? What if somebody used a mind-reading spell or something? They’d have to be ridiculously powerful and also willing to break Watford rules, but it’s possible. The thought of anybody knowing made his already-cold blood run colder, like ice in his veins that was instantly melted by Simon fucking Snow pulling his arm closer into his grasp. (Seriously, he’s like a fucking koala.) (If this was what dating Simon Snow was like, Baz changed his mind. (That’s a lie. Baz kind of loved it.))

    As soon as he heard that it was a **Love at first sight** spell, Baz was instantly flooded with dumb fantasies from fifth year: Snow pleads for him to touch him, Baz makes some stupid innuendo, Snow takes him up on it, blah blah blah, they make out and Snow calls him disgusting, the usual wet-dream material. But problems quickly arose--how would he get blood if Snow won’t leave him the fuck alone? He couldn’t feed or even sneak out to the dining hall to get pig’s blood from Cook Pritchard without Snow noticing. Thankfully, he had fed the night before last, so the need wasn’t so dire. Surely he’d be able to last the next twenty-four hours without blood--he’d gone dry for a full week one time, but it felt like absolute shite.  

    As it stood, the main issue for the next twenty-four hours wasn’t blood, it was his sanity. He absolutely won’t last much longer if Snow kept doing that _thing_ with his knuckles, tracing over them with his free hand where Baz could feel every callus and every ridge of his stupid, stubby fingers. He hated himself for the way his heart was caught in his throat no matter how many times he tried to remind himself it’s just because of the spell.

    Baz didn’t miss the looks the other students gave them, either. He heard the snickers and he shot everyone who so much as glanced in his direction a death glare nasty enough to wilt flowers. This was the most humiliating thing he’d done in years, easily, especially considering the fact that he wasn’t out at Watford yet. (Well. It wasn’t exactly a secret, anyone with two eyes and a passing knowledge of _Queer Eye_ could tell. He just hadn’t formally announced it yet.)

    By the time the period ended, Snow had half-draped himself over Baz and Baz was fairly certain he was hyperventilating. Keeping his cool around Snow was second nature at this point--he’d had over seven years to perfect his poker face, and he was damn good at it, too--but he’d never had to deal with _this_.

    Baz moved to stand, and Snow gave him a look reminiscent of a kicked puppy. “We have to go to lunch, dumbass,” he huffed, yanking his arm away and standing.

    Snow rolled his eyes and rose to his feet as well, slinging his backpack over his shoulder and running one of his hands through his stupidly perfect hair. He joined their hands again and inhaled sharply, eyes closing for a second before smiling. “Let’s go.”

 

**SIMON**

 

    Being stuck with Baz wasn’t as bad as Simon thought it would be. In fact, it was rather pleasant; Baz had stopped being his normal, prickly self, and being in physical contact with him made Simon feel light as a feather. The feeling was vaguely comparable to the time he got his wisdom teeth taken out and he was drugged out of his mind, slurring all his words and overly emotional. Like he was moving in a haze, all his sensations blurred and slow-motion. But the **Love at first sight** was less disorienting and made him feel good instead of tired--like what he imagined recreational drugs were like, if he were to ever use them. (He never had, of course. He’d been too scared to see how it would interact with his magic, and if he did go off, it would be hard to explain himself to the Mage. Also, hugs not drugs.) So it wasn’t too hard for him to get past the mental wall of “Merlin, why am I holding _Baz’s_ hand” and straight into the questionable territory of “man, holding Baz’s hand feels good.”

    As the day went on, he found himself caring less and less about the others’ stares. Of course, when he sat at Baz’s table for lunch (Baz refused to sit at his), they garnered a few amazed underclassmen who knew full well the reputation Baz and Simon had. Thankfully, Dev and Niall completely ignored Simon. They had already heard about the situation--just about everyone at Watford had--and were completely unfazed by it.

    Sitting with Baz was a strange experience. It almost felt like as if he had stepped into an alternate universe where Baz and Simon became friends instead of enemies (or maybe dating, by the way Simon was hanging off of his arm--ha!) (Imagine that, Baz and Simon dating. That’d be the most dysfunctional couple on the planet). It was almost scary how easily Simon integrated into the table, taking part in the casual banter between Baz and his friends. If he had never met Penny or Agatha, he could easily see himself as part of this clique instead.

    Lunch hour was up, and Simon nervously ran his fingers down Baz’s forearm. They didn’t share any classes for the rest of the day--three more class periods. He’d go insane if he tried to last that long; he felt like he was going insane after _half a class_ earlier. He’d never last that long.  

    Baz stood, and Simon yanked him back down by his wrist. “I know I’m irresistible, Snow, but I have to go to class,” he sneered, showing off sharp canines.

    Simon flushed, kneading Baz’s palm with his hand. “I--It’s not my fault, okay? It’s this dumb spell,” he mumbled, trying to devise a plan in his head to survive the next three hours. “Can you come to my classes, or can I go to yours?” he settled on, looking up at Baz with the biggest puppy-dog eyes he can muster.

    Baz rolled his eyes. “I’m not missing class or having you miss class because of some stupid spell. Have an ounce of willpower, Snow, it can’t be that bad.”

    Simon shook his head violently. “No, no, it is _definitely_ that bad. Being alone in Greek almost made me go off, and that was just one class period.”

    Baz bit the inside of his cheek, thinking. “The Mage would murder me if I made you miss class. Look, just make it through the next three classes, and I’ll skip football so you can swoon over me as soon as possible. Fine?” he proffered, raising his eyebrows condescendingly.

    Simon huffed. “Can I at least, uh, borrow your coat or something? I need something, _anything_ ,” he asked sheepishly. It was truly amazing how quickly he could swallow his pride when under the influence of a spell.

    To Simon’s surprise, Baz shrugged off his coat and handed it to him. “You’re lucky I’m such a generous person, I’m going to be freezing in sixth now.” Simon gratefully put it on, noting how it fit him totally differently to how it fit Baz; Baz was tall and skinny and Simon was average-height and stocky, so it was tight on the shoulders but long on the arms. Either way, it was infinitely better than nothing, and Simon subconsciously breathed in the smell of Baz. (Penny said it was “cedar and bergamot.” Simon could see the cedar, but he didn’t know what bergamot was. Smelled good, though. Like Baz’s posh soaps and moisturizers.) (Say what Simon will about Baz (and he will), but he couldn’t say that Baz didn’t smell good. Especially for a teenage boy.)

    “Thank you,” Simon breathed sincerely, wrapping the jacket around himself tighter. “Here. I don’t want you to be freezing, and I’m not wearing it,” he said, handing his own jacket to Baz.

    Baz turned up his nose. “Keep it, Snow. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wash that thing. It’ll probably make my skin break out.”

    Simon furrowed his brows. Even when he’s trying to be nice! “Fine, then. Have fun freezing your arse off, twat.”

    “I will.” Baz turned and left, leaving Simon one of the last ones left in the dining hall. He took another deep breath into Baz’s coat to stabilize his heart rate before shrugging on his backpack and heading to fifth. Hopefully, the jacket will be enough to keep him alive.

 

* * *

 

    It wasn’t.

    Not by a long shot.

    By the halfway point of fifth period, Simon was jiggling both legs, drumming all ten fingers on the table, and grinding his teeth. The poor girl that sat next to him was trying her best to ignore him, but it was impossible; not only was he being ridiculously loud, but his magic was leaking all over the place, leaving the classroom in a thick haze of smoke. Simon was an obnoxious person to have to sit next to normally, so magically-drugged Simon was somehow even worse.

    In sixth period, Elocution, he made a huge mistake. Possibelf gave them an assignment: use **Light a match** to create a small flame, then use **Stop, drop, and roll** to put it out, using different accents and inflections each time to produce a different result. Simple enough. Penny and Simon were partners, as always, and Penny was able to feel Simon’s turmoil, as always.

    “Simon, you’re about two centimetres from going off. Is it the Baz thing?”

    Simon nodded briskly, mumbling a quick **Stop, drop, and roll** to put out the little fire dancing on Penny’s fingertip.

    “I noticed you’re wearing his jacket.”

    “ **Light a match.** ”

    “Is it really that bad?”

    “ **Stop, drop, and roll.** ”

    “You can’t ignore me forever, Simon,” she stated, waving a hand in front of his eyes.

    “I can try. **Light a match**.” A medium-sized flame, this time on the tip of his wand. Success.

    “You’re not ignoring me, you’re ignoring the Baz thing, aren’t you? You’re probably super uncomfortable with being all touchy-feely with him, especially since that makes you the centre of attention.”

    “Don’t psychoanalyse me, Pen. **Stop, drop, and roll.** ” The flame flickers once, twice, grows taller, then dies.

    “This isn’t psychoanalysis. I can psychoanalyse you, though, if you wish.” He could _hear_ the Cheshire grin on her face even though he was pointedly not looking at her. “Maybe you’re just scared that Baz isn’t the evil vampire you thought he was, and now that you see he’s a normal human being with empathy and emotions, you’re uncomfortable facing this insane caricature of him you’ve concocted.”

    “ **Light a match!** ”

    A huge ball of fire accidentally shot out of Simon’s wand, hitting the chalkboard behind Mrs. Possibelf’s desk. The entire class gasped as the conflagration boomed and then fizzled like a firework, leaving smouldering bits of fire scattered around the room. The sound was deafening, and the entire room was filled with the sound of crackling fire and the smell of burnt wood.

    “ **Stop, drop, and roll!** ” Mrs. Possibelf cast, putting out the rest of the fires and filling the room with visible smoke. Students began to cough.

    Simon’s hands flew to his mouth, feeling his face flush with embarrassment.

    “Penny?” he whispered.

    “Yes?”

    “I think I went off just a little bit.”

 

* * *

 

    Thankfully, Mrs. Possibelf took pity on Simon and sent him back to his room to rest and recuperate. He practically ran to Mummers House; maybe he could take a nap and forget this ever happened. Easy enough.

    When he got back to the room, he flung himself into Baz’s bed without hesitation and breathed in the sheets, wrapping himself in them entirely. This was far better than the jacket--warm, soft, and one hundred per cent Baz. (He still kept the jacket on, though. For good measure.)

    Simon felt like he was being burnt alive from the inside, like his organs were charred and black from an unrelenting heat. Heat, heat, heat. He contemplated taking a cold shower, but if he let go of the blanket for more than two seconds he’d probably lose his mind. Being without Baz was like torture; maybe this was what drug addicts felt when trying to go clean, the flashes of heat and cold sweats and feverish shaking. His fingers clenched and unclenched involuntarily, sweat dripping down the back of his neck. The discomfort--not quite pain--was excruciating. He couldn’t wait for the twenty-four hours to be over and for this torture to be a funny story to tell. (“Hey, remember that one time when I was absolutely infatuated with my arch nemesis-slash-roommate? It was hilarious!”) Right now, though, he was curled in the fetal position in said arch nemesis’s bed, breathing him in and trying not to cry.

    He had no idea how much time had passed by the time he heard the door open. “Baz! You’re back!” He flew to his feet and jumped into him, capturing him in a bear hug and wrapping his legs around his torso. Instantly the discomfort dissipated, leaving him with a warm, fuzzy feeling. It felt like finally popping his ears after a day of flying in a plane, or finally feeling a cramp in his leg melt away, or finally gulping down a litre of water after going three days without. Simon almost cried right there and then from the relief. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he gasped breathlessly, unable to form coherent thought.

    “Crowley, Snow, you’re heavy,” Baz grunted, instinctively holding Simon up by his thighs so he wouldn’t fall to the ground. Simon ignored him and buried his nose in the crook of his neck, fisting his hands in the back of Baz’s dress shirt. Something about the way Baz’s body was so cold refreshed Simon, like an ice-cold water on a hot summer day or the blast of air conditioning when you walk into a convenience store.

    Baz lowered Simon’s legs to the floor and his knees gave out, making him cling to Baz’s chest like a sloth. “Fucking hell, alright, alright,” Baz laughed airlessly, dragging Simon to the bed and throwing him down upon it.

    Simon held out his arms, a dopey grin on his face. “C’mere, I wanna cuddle you,” he whined, reaching out for him. Any inhibitions he once had were completely out the window--he _needed_ Baz, so he swallowed his pride and hoped Baz wouldn’t tease him too bad about it afterwards.

    Baz rolled his eyes and sat next to him in bed. “I’ve never... I’m not a big cuddler, so I don’t know what do to,” he admitted, leaving a space on the bed between them. If Simon didn’t know better, he’d assume he was being shy. “This bed isn’t big enough for us both, anyway.”

    “That’s quitter talk. Anyway, you’re learning from the cuddling pro. Scoot closer,” Simon smirked, looping his arms around his chest and leaning him back until his spine was touching Simon’s chest. He hummed happily, resting his chin on Baz’s shoulder and wrapping his legs around his waist, crossing them over Baz’s legs. “There. Now you can still do homework or whatever.”

    “How generous of you,” Baz replied dryly.

    After a few minutes, Baz did just that. He retrieved his backpack from the foot of the bed where he had thrown it and pulled out a binder, resting it on top of Simon’s feet and scribbling down notes in it. Simon ran his hand up and down Baz’s abdomen through his shirt while he worked, eager to feel more skin. His warm fingers slipped between two buttons and touched Baz’s cold stomach.

    “What the fuck are you doing,” Baz exhaled, and Simon could feel his breath hitch.

    “Tell me if you want me to stop.” Simon rubbed little circles into his skin with the callused pad of his thumb.

    Baz’s head fell back onto Simon’s shoulder. “Don’t.”

 

**BAZ**

 

    Baz was praying to everything holy that he didn’t get a boner right now.

    Did Snow have any idea what he was doing? Did he know how _dangerous_ he was being? Did he have any fucking idea how head over heels Baz was? This was fucking torture. Absolute torture. The fact that his extremely heterosexual, extremely oblivious, extremely attractive roommate-slash-archenemy was running his burning-hot fingers up and down his abdomen was the equivalent of waterboarding to him.

    An important thing to know about Baz is that he was not only a virgin, but an extreme virgin. Never so much as held a boy’s hand. No kissing, no cuddling, hell, no crushes other than Snow. So bloody excuse him if he’s a little overwhelmed by the clinginess.

    In fact, he could see how Snow felt a kind of high from it, even without the **Love at first sight** . As someone who had never... _participated_ in cuddling, it was a lot to take in. It felt so intimate, _too_ intimate for two presumed enemies. His heart was beating out of his chest, and thank Merlin Snow didn’t have vampire hearing or else he’d definitely hear it. At least this would only last twenty-four hours; Baz would probably go insane if he had to be this close to Snow for any longer.

    Thankfully, he didn’t have to worry about his trouser situation, because he was ninety-nine per cent sure all the blood in his body was currently flushing his normally ghostly white cheeks bright red. In its place, pure shame flowed through his veins--if he had any fucking willpower, he’d tell Snow to stop, he’d yell at him, he’d push him away and away until he couldn’t hurt him anymore. But he didn’t. He couldn’t, not when this was probably the only time he’d get to be held by him like this. A creeping guilt ran up his spine, like he was taking advantage of Snow by letting this happen. He didn’t know how Baz felt, he didn’t know that this meant so much more to Baz than it meant to him.

    “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

    Baz let himself be selfish.

    “Don’t.”

 

* * *

 

    By the time he and Snow usually went to sleep, Snow was still buzzing with energy and wrapped around Baz’s torso comfortably. The sun had long since gone down, and the occasional hooting of an owl as well as the quiet lapping of the moat were the only sounds that permeated the room. In the same vein, the only light that illuminated the room was the small lamp on the nightstand next to Baz’s bed, casting a warm amber filter over everything.

    Their positions had changed slightly. Now, Snow had shifted a few inches back so he wasn’t pressed to Baz’s back, but instead, was playing with his hair. Having Snow with him felt like having a toddler who had to be entertained; first, he was content to just lay on Baz, then he was running his hands all over his chest, then he was massaging his shoulders (which Baz didn’t mind, he’s had a knot in his shoulder for weeks now), and now he was running his fingers through his hair.

    “Like my hair, Snow?” Baz smirked, half-focused on his homework and half-enjoying the feeling of blunt nails lightly scratching his scalp.

    “’S nice,” Snow murmured, transfixed by Baz’s inky black hair. “Soft.” Baz wished he could see his face right now. “D’you know how to braid hair?” he asked suddenly, sleepy slur gone from his voice.

    “Yes.”

    “...Why?”

    “All my siblings and cousins are female, Snow. Mordelia taught me when she first learned because she was so excited about it,” Baz explained, closing his textbook and turning halfway so he could look at Snow. He wished he had a camera. Something about the way his eyes were even bluer than normal, the way his bronze hair was even messier than normal, the way his freckled skin was flushed and pink, the way the golden light danced on his skin and cast his face in weird shadows. The way he was looking at Baz like he was the world.

    “Teach me.”

    Simon Snow was incredibly, irrevocably alive.

    And Baz hated him for it.

    And Baz loved him for it.

    “You start by taking three locks of hair...”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> proofreading is for COWARDS  
> (jk, just wanted to push this out as fast as possible so I didn't proofread as heavily as I normally do--pls tell me if u find any typos/tense changes! [writing two fics w the same characters at the same time in two different tenses is a stupid, stupid thing i decided to do])
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoy!

**SIMON**

 

When they fell asleep, Baz was lying on his back with his right arm outstretched, and Simon was curled up into his characteristic sleep ball next to him, not touching nearly as much as Simon wanted to but enough so that he wasn’t excruciatingly uncomfortable.

When they woke up, however, both Simon and Baz were half-bent in a spooning position, but instead of facing the same direction, they had flipped so they were facing each other. Simon was curled more than Baz, the crown of his head resting on the underside of Baz’s chin, but from the chest-down they were entangled, legs braided between legs like Baz’s hair was (he forgot to take the messy, unsalvageable braids that Simon had done out, and they were even more unkempt than before they were slept in) and torsos pressed against each other. Baz’s arms were wrapped around Simon’s spine, and Simon’s arms were wrapped around Baz’s abdomen like a loose hug.

Simon could hear Baz’s heart beating, a rhythmic _ thump, thump _ that almost persuaded him to fall back asleep. He probably should have woken up at that point, should have pulled away and gotten dressed. After all, the spell was only supposed to last a few hours more. He should have weaned himself off of this slowly so he didn’t shock his system.

But he didn’t.

He curled closer, pulling Baz impossibly nearer, savouring these last few hours of contact. He’d miss this. He’d miss this closeness, this intimacy, with his supposed enemy. Maybe Penny was right; maybe this had shifted his perspective of Baz. He certainly seemed less dangerous and plotting now that Simon knew that he and his little sister braid each other’s hair, and now that he knew he didn’t cast the spell in the first place, now that he knew just how cold every inch of his skin is, and now that he knew the best places to massage to make him melt beneath his palms (the little dip behind his right shoulder blade, the base of his neck, and his knuckles). 

He almost wished that the spell wouldn’t wear off. Having an excuse to cuddle up to Baz was unexpectedly pleasant, and after the Agatha breakup, having  _ anyone _ to cuddle up to was a drastic improvement. Simon was just a touch-oriented person, that’s all. He was just really, really cuddly. That’s it. Of course, he never really cuddled Penny, but it was just  _ different _ with Baz.

He mentally added “Why I really,  _ really _ like cuddling Baz and nobody else, spell or no spell” to the Don’t Think list. 

 

**BAZ**

 

Baz felt it when Snow pulled him closer and breathed deeply. How could he not? He’d been awake for about thirty minutes already, just drinking in the last hour or so of time he’d have Snow to himself. The last hour he’d have Snow climbing over himself to initiate physical contact with him. Honestly, Baz was still in awe that this ever happened. Fifth-year him would have came in his pants at least ten times by this point.

Speaking of. 

There was  _ definitely _ something poking into his thigh right now.

He noticed it as soon as he woke up and immediately cursed Merlin under his breath. The way that Baz’s leg was slotted between Simon’s, it was definitely noticeable. As if this entire day hadn’t been enough, now Simon fucking Snow, Chosen One and heterosexual extraordinaire as well as Baz’s crush of some seven-odd years, was, by virtue of his positioning, pressing his morning wood onto Baz’s leg. Truly, his life was a fucking sitcom at this point. (If he had fed in the past two days, he would probably be in even more of a predicament, though, so. You win some, you lose some.)

Even with his lessened blood supply, Baz felt his entire body blush. His skin felt prickly, hypersensitive, so of course he felt it when Snow pulled him closer. He dreaded the moment when Snow woke up.

Much to his chagrin, that moment seemed to be now.

Snow hummed into his chest, taking another deep breath and slowly uncurling himself from his half-ball, stretching his arms and legs. He smacked his lips together a few times and rubbed his eyes. 

Baz pretended to wake up, too, yawning and propping himself up on his elbow to look at Snow proper. He felt the...  _ presence _ on his thigh shift before Snow seemed to realize what was happening.

“Oh my fucking God,” Snow hissed like a Normal, jumping to full awareness and springing as far away from Baz as possible.

As it happened, “as far away from Baz as possible” was off the bed.

And onto the floor.

 

**SIMON**

 

Simon was a fucking dumbass.

He realized that just about as quickly as he realized he was pressing his crotch to Baz’s leg in his half-asleep state, and then he realized it again as he sprung off the damn bed in an attempt to distance himself from Baz and not embarrass himself any further. (Look how well that worked.)

The thump was obscenely loud and he instantly felt a bruise begin to form on his ass. Great. He stood, trying to recover from his hard fall on the wood floor. “I--I’m so fucking sorry,” he mumbled, adjusting his pants and pulling his sleep shirt down to cover himself more. “It’s, um, probably the spell.”

“’Probably’?” Baz snickered, quirking an eyebrow. Fucking narcissistic twat.

Simon felt himself turn red out of anger and shame, and his free hand rose to hide his face out of shame. “W--O--Definitely,” he stammered, scampering over to his side of the room to search through his dresser to find something to wear. “I’m gonna, uh, take a shower now,” he finally spat out and ran to the bathroom, holding his ball of clothing low to preserve his dignity.

“Make it cold,” Baz called, righting himself in bed and stretching. Before he disappeared into the bathroom, Simon froze for a second, his eyes catching on the sliver of skin under his shirt that was revealed when Baz lifted his arms above his head. He dashed into the bathroom before Baz could catch him and closed the door, breathing heavily.

So maybe he wasn’t as straight as he thought.

Interesting.

The thought lingered in his mind even as he disrobed and stepped into the blisteringly hot shower, letting the water run down his face and body blindly. He’d never thought of himself as  _ anything _ , really. When asked his orientation, he’d always said straight as a default. Sure, he’d had guy-crushes, but nothing substantial, right? ...Right? It’s not his fault some of the Watford footballers have nice legs, and it’s not his fault Penny has caught him staring on more than one occasion, and it’s  _ definitely _ not his fault he got an unfortunate case of morning wood (which he  _ still fucking had, Merlin and Morgana _ ) while sleep-cuddling with Baz. Baz was an objectively, ridiculously handsome guy. Any straight guy would find him attractive. Any straight guy would physically react while cuddling him.

Right? Right.

 

**BAZ**

 

Well then.

That was certainly an interesting way to start the day.

As Snow took a ridiculously long amount of time in the shower, Baz couldn’t help but be reminded of yesterday morning, when Snow banged on the door and asked him if he was wanking. Oh, how the tables have turned. He was never letting him live this down.

Baz decided to skip his morning shower and take it at night instead, taking this opportunity to get dressed while Snow was in the bathroom. He also pointedly decided  _ not _ to think about what Snow may or may not be doing in the shower. He picked up his wrinkled blazer from the floor where it laid, discarded, from when Snow was getting changed to sleep. Rolling his eyes, he threw it on his bed and made a mental note to wash it later, choosing a different coat to wear that day.

Once Snow finally came out of the shower, pink from the ridiculously hot showers he always took, Baz shouldered past him to brush his teeth and comb his hair. “Have a good wank, Snow?” he teased, spitting out the toothpaste and wiping his mouth.

“Shut up,” Snow groaned, throwing on a sweater and returning to the bathroom, wrapping his arms around Baz’s midsection and resting his cheek against his back in a hug from behind. Baz resisted the urge to flinch, raising his arms in shock; he still wasn’t used to it. “You’re so much nicer when you aren’t talking,” Snow grumbled.

“And you’re nicer when you aren’t dry-humping me,” Baz snorted, shaking him off and reaching for his hairbrush. He didn’t necessarily  _ want _ to shake him off, but he needed to keep up his aloof, uninterested persona.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Pitch, you’re not all that. It was because of the spell,” Snow scoffed, refusing to make eye contact and looping his arm around Baz’s waist. He leaned against Baz, making him relax subconsciously.

“’Not that much’? I’ll have you know, I am easily the most attractive person on the Watford football team,” Baz stated, conjuring a faux-offended tone. 

“Well, you’ve never had a girlfriend in all our years at Watford, and it’s not like you’re beating girls off with a stick,” Snow laughed, wrapping his other arm around Baz’s front and connecting his hands.

Aleister Crowley.

“There’s a reason for that,” Baz smirked, carding his fingers through his hair and placing the brush back on the counter.

Snow looked up at him quizzically. “And what’s that?”

Baz looked back down at him. Should he tell him? Would that be too much? Was he being deceitful by not telling him sooner? He bit his lip, before saying, “If you must know, I prefer those of the male persuasion,” trying to make it sound as gentle as he could.

 

**SIMON**

 

Holy fuck.

Baz was gay.

Baz, Basilton Pitch, Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch, was gay.

Something about the way Baz’s teeth worried at his lip and the tone in his voice made Simon sure he “preferred those of the male persuasion” as well. (Also, what a snobby, pretentious way to say you’re gay. Typical Baz.)

“Oh. Cool.” Simon felt his mouth go dry. “Cool,” he repeated. “That’s cool.” How many times was it okay to say “cool” before it went from being accepting to being awkward?

“If you’re uncomfortable, that’s--”

“I’m not uncomfortable!” Simon announced, much louder than he anticipated. “It’s fine. Really. Super fine. More than fine,” he rambled, sure his ears were bright crimson. Now would be the time to shut up, Simon. “Tooootally fine.”

Baz looked at him like he had grown two heads, which he didn’t blame him for. If Simon were flexible enough, he’d literally put his foot in his mouth. He offered Baz a sheepish grin.

 

**BAZ**

 

Baz really knew how to fucking pick ‘em.

At least he wasn’t homophobic?

Making the wise decision to change the topic, Baz said, “...Anyway. The spell should be wearing off soon, at around eight-thirty. Are you feeling any better?”

Snow shrugged, looking down at his own linked hands. “Not really. We still have, like, thirty minutes, though, so hopefully I’ll feel better then? I don’t know.” Snow leaned his head on Baz’s shoulder and joined him in looking at their reflection in the mirror. The more Baz looked at them like this, the more he could see them as a couple. It started to look almost normal, like Snow draping himself around Baz was normal, like the simple act of resting his hands on Baz’s hipbone wouldn’t make his heart flutter because it was normal, like he didn’t feel the need to savour every second of the contact because it would never go away. It made his heart physically hurt like he was choking on one of Snow’s sour cherry scones; it felt like his fantasies from the past seven years had finally come true, but under wildly different pretenses. He could only wonder what seeing them like this, so domestic, was making Snow feel. (He could only hope it was something similar to what he felt.)

“Joy,” deadpanned Baz, schooling his face back into a scowl and pulling Snow’s hands off of his waist before swiftly exiting the bathroom.

“Lend me your jacket again?” asked Snow, half-cheekily.

“Do you see how wrinkled you got it? Over my dead body.”

 

* * *

 

Breakfast time. The moment of truth.

This time, Baz relented and let Bunce sit at the table with them, since she was concerned about Snow’s wellbeing after coming off of the spell. (Which was fairly reasonable; sometimes, the victim could faint or at the very least have a wicked migraine.)

“We have no idea how long this will affect him,” Bunce huffed, sitting on the other side of Simon, who was still as clingy as ever despite having five minutes left on the spell. “As far as I’m concerned, we’re lucky if he doesn’t go off.”

“Snow, I swear to Crowley if you go off and set me on fire or whatever I’ll kill you,” Baz mumbled, absentmindedly eating a scone. His mind was somewhere else, lingering on the hours he had Snow wrapped around his finger. Maybe nothing would change. Maybe they’d go back to normal, and they’d go back to fighting and bickering and pushing each other down the stairs (accidentally). Baz wished they wouldn’t. He wished this would never end, and Snow would be dependent on him forever, and he’d never have to admit his feelings to anyone but himself because he had Snow already and he didn’t need to.

He wished.

 

**SIMON**

 

“I won’t go off.” Simon rolled his eyes petulantly, as if the very accusation offended him. If he was being completely honest, though, it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. Being close to Baz made him feel like he was always two seconds from going off--it gave him the same rush, the same tingly feeling, and that’s  _ without _ the spell. With the spell, he felt like his magic was leaking everywhere. Thankfully, that symptom must have lessened overnight, because Penny could stand being around him now. (After the disaster in Elocution, she had politely told him that he needed to hole himself in his room because he was driving her a little insane, to which he said “Is it my magic, or me?” and she replied “Yes.”) (Which was fair.)

“There was nothing you could’ve said that would’ve made me  _ more  _ worried about you going off, so thanks,” Penny sighed. Baz snorted, and Simon punched him gently in the arm.

Niall piped up. “What happens if it doesn’t wear off? It’s not unlikely, what with Simon’s weird magic.” Simon had never noticed before how Baz calls him by his last name while Dev and Niall call him by his first. Weird.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” Simon said, then added, “ _ If  _ we get to it.”

“You’re T-minus two minutes, now. How are you feeling?” Dev asked after consulting his watch. He must’ve taken the time once everyone realized what had hit Simon.

Simon tightened his grip around Baz’s arm infinitesimally. “...The same, really,” he finally said, trying to determine his status.

A thought crossed his mind.

What if he  _ said _ it didn’t end?

What if he just  _ said  _ he was still under the effects of the spell for another day or two? He’d get another twenty-four or forty-eight hours with Baz under the excuse of the spell, and after the jig was up, he could say it was because of the potency of his magic. He could get out of class, too, and he’d get to learn how to properly braid, and he’d get to share Baz’s bed again, and he’d get to feel his cold skin again...

“One minute,” Dev announced. Penny, Niall, and Baz were chatting in the background, but Simon was thinking over this new idea.

Really, it’s foolproof. There’s no possibly way he could fuck this up. After a day or two, proudly announce that he’s feeling better, and then back to Simon and Baz at each other’s throats. Maybe after they’d be friends, too, after having more time together. No harm, no foul. 

Honestly, Simon was a fucking genius.

“Three, two, one... zero,” Dev stated, and all at once, everyone at the table turned to Simon. He became incredibly aware of every point he was touching Baz; his left arm was curled around Baz’s right, he was pressing his entire leg to Baz’s, and Baz’s ankle was crossed over his.  _ Okay, let’s see if that acting class I took for half a semester in fourth year stuck. _

__ Simon detached himself from Baz and, just as he expected, the dull pain that had become normal at that point wasn’t there. He felt... normal.

Why was he disappointed?

Simon wasn’t a liar. He didn’t like lying. But this was necessary, he rationalized, before taking a gulp and screwing his face up. “It hurts, just like before,” he mumbled, pressing a hand to his temple as if he had a headache, just like he did the first time. When he looked up, he saw Penny and Baz and Dev and Niall, all looking at him with that Look on their faces, and holy  _ shit _ Baz looked actually worried.

They believed him.

So he decided to plaster it on a little thicker.

“Actually... I think it hurts more than before,” he groaned, leaning over and bringing his other hand to his forehead as well. “It’s like when the spell was first cast on me, and it was just a shooting pain in my head.” He winced and added a hiss of pain to really sell it. (Dear Merlin, what had he become?)   
“What if you...,” Baz trailed off, eyebrows furrowed in a way Simon had never seen before (and Simon had seen them all), before holding his hand up where the rest could see and lacing his fingers between his.

Simon sighed happily, melting into the contact and leaning back into Baz in a way that was only half-facetious. A sharp pang of guilt struck his chest, but when Baz reluctantly wrapped his arm around his shoulders and let Simon wrap himself around his torso, he couldn’t help but feel successful. Baz would  _ never _ had done this again if Simon hadn’t said he was still affected, so... this couldn’t be all bad. It was a victimless crime, surely. There’s no way Baz wasn’t enjoying this, too; if Simon was touch-starved, Baz was infinitely more so. He’d never seen him so much as high-five another person, much less cuddle one. 

“Well, this fucking sucks,” Niall stated matter-of-factly.

“Sure does,” grumbled Baz.

“What now?” Penny wondered aloud, pushing her glasses up on her nose like she does when she’s thinking.

Simon curled tighter, burying his face into Baz’s side to hide his face. This was working like a fucking  _ charm _ . If only he could use this as evidence whenever Baz calls him thick!

“One thing’s for fucking sure, we’re not telling the Mage,” Baz said, pressing the meat of his palm on Simon’s forehead and pushing him off.

“Why not?” Penny asked, grabbing Simon’s shoulder and turning him to face her. He whined quietly at the loss of contact and looked at her as she analysed his face. She looked at his eyes, which he purposefully let fall to a half-lidded state, and pressed the back of her hand to his forehead. “He does feel kind of feverish,” she muttered, before pulling his eyelid up and looking closer at his eyes. “His pupils are blown out, too. You know I’m not a fan of the Mage either, but this is kind of important. Who knows how long this will last?”

“Because the Mage is a fascist dressed like a primary school play-edition Peter Pan, and he’ll probably try and blame  _ me  _ for this somehow. This dumb  **Love at first sight** spell isn’t a big enough deal to warrant Mage-ly intervention,” Baz scoffed monotonously. Penny instructed Simon to open his mouth and say “ahh,” and he did, because it’s Penny.

“I think our biggest objective right now is finding out who cast it,” Dev interjected, his hand resting at his chin as if he was deep in thought. “Who would have a vendetta against Simon, even a childish one?”

Simon pointedly turned to look at Baz, and Baz sneered at him in response. “You wish.” Penny turned him back around and resumed her examination.

“Other than Baz? I have no clue,” she mumbled, feeling Simon’s throat for his lymph nodes. He coughed histrionically, making gagging noises and swatting her hand away. “Generally, everybody loves Simon, bar you lot.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Baz stated.

“What now?” Niall asked, past the bacon in his mouth. “I mean. You can’t be snogging all day, you don’t have the same classes. Will Simon go to yours?”   
“We haven’t been  _ snogging _ ,” Simon insisted, finally having enough of Penny’s prodding and turning back to Baz. “And... I don’t know. We’re in most the same classes, so hopefully the teachers won’t mind if I just go to Baz’s classes instead?”

Baz nodded, begrudgingly letting Simon latch onto him again. “That’s probably the best solution. We don’t want a repeat of the Elocution mess.” Of course, word of “the Elocution mess” spread around Watford like the plague, and every underclassman was talking about it; after all, Baz and Simon were  _ the _ most well-known, high-profile students at Watford. It only made sense. But it also made Simon’s spine crawl. The more people analyse their relationship and Simon’s affliction, the more likely someone is to find out about the charade. Maybe this  _ wasn’t _ as foolproof as Simon thought. It’s not too late to back out, still. He could just say it lasted a couple extra minutes, or that Dev’s watch was off.

“Or you could at least  _ try _ to go it alone, just for one period, and see how it affects you before going through the trouble of going to Baz’s classes,” Dev suggested.

“No,” Simon immediately replied. “Absolutely not. Do you want me to go off again? I don’t want to risk it.” To prove his point, he pulled Baz’s arm into his jurisdiction, flinging one of his legs over Baz’s lap. (The last bit was almost solely to annoy Baz.) (Almost.)

Baz pushed Simon’s leg off. “You’re fucking annoying.”

“I like to think it’s endearing.” Simon swung his leg back over.

“For Crowley’s sake, Snow,” Baz growled, throwing Simon’s leg back to his side roughly. “If you want me to do you a fucking favor, don’t be an annoying git.” Simon started to chuckle before Baz pulled him back to look him in the eye. Oh shit, he was serious. “Do you know how easy it would be to just leave you in pain? Say ‘fuck it’ and leave you alone? In case you forgot, I’m not your friend, Snow. I have better things to do than let you follow me around and cling to me like a bloody leech,” he hissed, voice hard as steel and emotionless. He let his arm go, and Simon fell back where he was before, a few painful inches away.

Simon’s heart fell through his chest. This was a horrible, horrible idea. Maybe the worst idea of all time. He’d pushed too far. They had this tug-of-war perfected down to an art, but sometimes one of them would push too far, like the chimera incident or the Agatha incident. He had the sinking feeling that this was one of those times.

“Fine,” he mumbled, settling for holding Baz’s hand under the table.

“Uh,” said Dev awkwardly.

“Shit, breakfast’s already over,” Penny said as she retrieved her backpack from under the table. “I guess you’ll have to deal with Simon for the rest of the day or until the spell wears off, whichever comes first. Good fucking luck.”

“You’re gonna need it,” Niall snorted, before leaving with Dev.

It was just Baz and Simon now.

“Look, I--”

“Shut up,” Baz snarled. “You talk too much.” To Simon’s surprise and despite his rough voice, Baz was the one who intertwined their fingers. The coolness of his skin felt grounding; even though Baz’s moods were arbitrary and always-changing, his weirdly cold body would always be a constant.

Simon could feel the gears turning in his head. “I--”

“For Crowley’s sake, Snow, shut your gob for two seconds, yeah?” Baz pulled him in the direction of the door and left him stumbling to catch up. Simon followed blindly, unsure of what to think. Was Baz mad at him or not? It never was hard to tell; before, the answer was always Baz was, in fact, mad at him. But now there’s a possibility he wasn’t  _ actually _ mad at him.

 

**BAZ**

 

Was Baz actually mad at Snow or not?

Fuck if he knew.

Keeping up his aloof facade was getting harder and harder the more he was forced to be in contact with Snow. Deep down, the fifth-year inside him was yearning to just drop the act and enthusiastically indulge himself and cuddle him as much as he wanted. On the other hand, the current eighth-year inside him was playing the  _ Kill Bill  _ sirens on loop every time he had a soft thought.

The worst part was that he was now stuck with an overly-affectionate Snow indefinitely. He got what he wanted, right? He got to curl up to Snow as much as his gay heart desired!  _ Indefinitely! _ No countdown looming over his head, no “only forty minutes remaining,” just enjoying the time he has with Snow. By all accounts, this was a miracle. But something still nagged at him in the back of his mind, that eventually this will be over and he’ll have to go back to normal assholery and he’ll have to forget everything that happened and he’ll have to forget what falling asleep next to Simon fucking Snow is like and he’ll never be able to forget. Maybe the spell will last forever. Maybe the spell will become fatal and Snow will die and put both of them out of their misery. (Who was he kidding, if Snow died he’d be an even bigger wreck than he is now.)

First period passed sluggishly, but thankfully nobody gave them shit. Second period was even slower somehow. Third was impossible.

As the day went on, he felt another acute feeling in his abdomen besides the butterflies he already had--hunger. Not food-hunger, blood-hunger. Capital-H Hunger. As in, hadn’t-fed-in-three-days  _ hunger _ . This would present a problem if Snow stayed by his side like a demented conjoined twin much longer. Of course, he’d lasted longer--up to a week one time--but the longer he goes, the weaker it gets and, most importantly, the harder it is to control his fangs. The last thing he needed right now was for his fangs to pop in the middle of a cuddle-sesh with Snow. As a matter of fact, Snow was currently leaning up to see the board, angling his jaw in such a way that his neck was exposed. As cliche as Baz knew it was, he wanted nothing more than to sink his fangs into his freckled skin, to pierce his jugular and let the familiar, coppery taste of blood fill his mouth. He wouldn’t feed enough to kill, obviously, especially since it would be his first time feeding on a human; then, they’d properly snog, and Snow would taste his own blood on Baz’s tongue and wince at the taste, and Baz would trace his lip with his razor-sharp teeth, and Snow would call him disgusting or evil or subhuman. (Side note: Baz was into things he probably shouldn’t be into.) (Side side note: would drinking his blood like Bela Lugosi satisfy the conditions of  **Love at first sight** ?)

The sound of Snow’s voice entered his periphery--he must have zoned out. “Baz? Basilton? Tyrannus? Vampire jackass?” He waved his hand in front of his face.

“What do you want?” Baz mumbled, only half-paying attention. 

“Class is over. We have to go to second period,” said Snow, gently tugging his arm upwards to bring him to stand like he was.

“So it is,” Baz muttered, looking around at the empty classroom and shoving his notebook into his backpack. “Are you still  **Love at first sight** ed?”

Snow’s mouth pressed into a line. “Yeah. It’s definitely getting worse, too.”

“Well, shite.”

 

* * *

 

The rest of the day passed the same way until sixth period, when a  **Messenger pigeon** flew into the room through the open window and handed Mrs. Possibelf a note. “Simon and Basilton, to the Mage’s office,” she read, holding the note up to hand to them.

“Did you get us in trouble?” Baz spat under his breath, standing and brushing off his trousers.

“I didn’t do anything,” Simon whispered back, stumbling to his feet since he was still wrapped around Baz’s arm.

Baz could hear Dev and Niall giggling behind him and, after making sure he was out of Possibelf’s sight, he raised two fingers at them behind his back. With his free hand, of course; the other was still resting loosely in Snow’s feverish grip. (He was never, ever going to get used to holding Simon Snow’s hand.)

 

**SIMON**

 

The walk to the Mage’s office was terse, to say the least. Baz must’ve been convinced that Simon told the Mage or something, because he refused to speak. To ease the tension, Simon swung their joined hands between them in the hopes that Baz would at least scoff or something. To his dismay, Baz only jerked his hand away with a quiet, “You’re a child, Snow.” (His cold hand was pliant when Simon laced his fingers back, so he mustn’t have been too mad.)

Sitting next to Baz in the Mage’s office wasn’t a new experience, but it was the first time in a couple of years. It reminded him of the first four years of Watford, when they were blatantly at each others’ throats and Baz would be nursing a black eye and Simon would be nursing a bloody nose. Now, it was more of a subtle, psychological rivalry. In fact, just sitting in the office reminded him of times with Baz. The blinds were open, allowing stale, cloudy sunlight to filter through the windows and highlight flying dust motes. Additionally, the Mage’s desk was more of a mess than it normally was; typically, there were only a pen and a nameplate, but today, there were a haphazard stack of books and balled-up sheets of paper in addition to the normal pen and nameplate.

After a few minutes of Simon squirming and Baz staring at the bookshelves, the Mage finally made an entrance. As much as Simon liked the Mage, he really did dress obnoxiously; as he sat down, he had to move his olive green cape out of the way. “Good afternoon, boys,” he greeted. Simon could hear the tenseness in his voice--he was worried about something.

Simon mumbled a “good afternoon” in response; Baz didn’t bother.

“I’ll cut to the chase: I’ve received news of this love spell, Simon. Care to explain?” the Mage asked, leaning back in his chair.

Simon sputtered.  _ Explain _ ? It’s not like he asked for this stupid spell! (Well. He did technically extend it by lying, so maybe he did.) “W--I, uh, yesterday morning I was... talking to Baz, and then somebody cast it on me as a prank or something, and it still hasn’t worn off,” he rambled, unsure of how much detail to give. Lying to the Mage was a special kind of torture. On one hand, the Mage was like a father figure, a mentor; theoretically, Simon should be able to trust him with anything. On the other, the Mage was only his mentor because he wanted to hone his “greatest weapon” and turn him into some kind of political advantage against the Old Families--against Baz.

“And the target of the spell is Basilton,” the Mage finished.

“Appears so,” Simon replied before tacking on, “sir.”

The Mage retrieved a notepad from a drawer in his desk and jotted down a note, carefully angling the pad so Baz and Simon couldn’t see. Anxiety started to travel up Simon’s spine, and subconsciously he touched the back of Baz’s hand with his pinky finger where the Mage couldn’t see; he needed just a smidge of contact,  _ anything _ . To his surprise, Baz took Simon’s hand in his fully, face remaining cold and stony with no hint of emotion. Simon was sure his ears were bright red now, if not because of the lying, because of Baz’s casual affection. “The spell was cast at... eight thirty-four, correct?”

“Yes, sir.”   
“It’s currently two forty-three. The spell is still in effect?”

Now or never.

Simon gulped. “Yes, sir.”

Thank Merlin he didn’t have them under a truth spell.

“Fascinating. There has never in the history of this spell been a case lasting longer than twenty-four hours; I’ve been  **Fine tooth comb** ing through books since I heard. It’s truly remarkable, Simon,” the Mage beamed like a proud parent, getting that glint in his eye he always did when Simon discovered a new ability of his. He wasn’t sure if he liked that glint or despised it.

“ _ Truly _ ,” Baz grumbled under his breath. Simon snorted, and the Mage gave him a look. He quickly schooled his face back into a neutral expression.

“As soon as the spell wears off, I want to hear it, okay? I also want to conduct some experiments and observations on you two. This is an incredible breakthrough and yet another example of how unpredictable Simon’s magic is. It’s scientifically and magickally significant--this has to be documented and observed,” the Mage explained in the way he always referred to Simon’s magic; like he couldn’t wait to see what happened, as if Simon was a fucking Science Fair project. “As a matter of fact, I have held you from football and rugby practice indefinitely so we can monitor you closely for the entire duration of the spell. Tomorrow, as soon as you wake up, you will report to the Wavering Wood, and I’ll begin the first experiment. Do you understand?”

While the Mage spoke, Simon felt Baz’s hand grow fidgety in his hand, and to calm him, Simon rubbed his knuckles with his thumb in a hopefully-comforting manner. He got his response in the form of a soft squeeze. “I understand, sir.”

“I understand,” Baz echoed, his voice empty of emotion.

“Wonderful. You’re excused for the day; you may return to your room or wherever you wish. Watch how you’re feeling, Simon, and if anything develops, come tell me immediately.” The Mage nodded to signify they could leave and opened one of the massive tomes on his desk as well as retrieving his wand from his cape.

“Yes, sir,” Simon uttered, rising at the same time as Baz. Thankfully, Baz remembered their hands were locked and quickly dropped them before they rose into the Mage’s line of sight.

Once they were back in their room in Mummers House, Baz was the first to speak. “Well, fuck.”

Simon laughed. “’Well, fuck’ indeed.”

“What a twat! He can’t pull me from class and practice, my grades will definitely drop. Anyway, we have a game!” Baz cried indignantly, falling back onto his bed and crossing his arms.

“I think the Chosen One’s well-being is more important than a footy game,” Simon replied dryly, crawling into the tiny bed beside him.

“Narcissist,” Baz scoffed. “He’s only interested because he could get fame and power off of this discovery or whatever. Or because he found something out that made favorite golden boy an even shinier gold.”   
Simon pulled back, furrowing his brows. “Don’t say that,” was all he could muster for a reply.

“You know it’s true,” Baz sneered, leaning his head back on his pillow and covering his eyes with his arm. “And now I’m roped into this, too, which is a horrible idea. You know damn well how much he hates me.”

“He doesn’t hate you, he’s just... not fond of your family,” Simon said carefully.   
“Potato, potahto.”

Simon sighed frustratedly. “Remember how you’re better when you’re not talking? Yeah.”

“What was that? I’m asleep, can’t hear you,” Baz mumbled, stretching his ridiculously long legs out to the end of the bed.

“Asleep? It’s barely three in the afternoon!” protested Simon.

“Nap.”

“You’re insufferable.”

Baz fake-snored in response.

Sighing, Simon flipped so his chest was pressing against Baz’s, albeit a bit off-center, and his legs were slotted between Baz’s. He wrapped his arms around Baz’s torso and buried his face into Baz’s neck, inhaling deeply. (Goddamn Baz for smelling so good all the time.) Thankfully, Baz wrapped his free arm around his back and fisted in the material of his sweater, making Simon sigh happily. He wasn’t even tired before climbing into bed with Baz, but now that he was pressed head-to-toe to his cold yet solid body, he could fall asleep within five minutes.

And he did.

 

**BAZ**

 

When Baz woke up, it was late at night. The faint lapping of the moat outside floated in the (open, damn you, Snow) window and almost lulled him back to sleep. He looked at the clock and his eyes widened when it read past midnight--he had slept next to Snow for nine hours. It was rare he could sleep for even four hours without being rudely woken up by a nightmare, especially not over twice that. For a moment longer, he basked in the heat of Simon Snow’s mass on top of him, snoring quietly. Selfishly, he found himself hoping that the spell would never end, if this was what every night was like when spelled. 

The nagging hunger from before tugged at his stomach again, and he figured this was the perfect time to go to the Catacombs and feed. He didn’t know when he would get a chance again, since Snow would be clinging to him for the foreseeable future.

Snow began to stir, humming lightly and stretching. Shit.

Baz untangled their bodies, tucking his hair behind his ear and shifting Snow as gently as possible. “Shh, go back to sleep,” he whispered, cursing the gods for his horrible luck. He stumbled out of bed, almost losing his balance when Snow inadvertently held his leg with his own, and shrugged on his coat before exiting as quietly as possible.

Hopefully Snow was already back asleep and won’t remember him leaving in the morning.

 

**SIMON**

 

When Simon woke up at half past midnight, the first thing he realized was his human (vampire?) body pillow was gone and he was sweaty. No wonder he was hot, his personal A/C unit was gone. He sat up in bed, rubbing his crusted eyes and reached around in the darkness. “Baz?” he called, and was only half-surprised when he didn’t get an answer. He looked around the room and noticed his coat was gone from where it once sat on Simon’s bed--great. He left. Simon had noticed him leave during the nights before, but he was never really directly affected by it. Normally, he’d just put it down as evidence of him plotting, but now that Baz had an incentive to stay in Mummers, it was tenfold more suspicious. Where could he possibly be going?

Whatever. It was far too late to be theorizing. Simon flopped back into Baz’s bed and nuzzled into his pillow, breathing in deeply and falling back asleep. He’d worry about it in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the positive feedback on this fic has seriously made my day! I read every comment/message you send (even if I don't reply bc I don't want to clog up the comments) and it makes me so happy, so thank you so much for your support! More comments=more incentive=faster updates ;D 
> 
> Again, my tumblr is @/bowielesbian so feel free to scream in my ask box! Thank you again for reading <33

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please comment and kudos if you enjoyed! My tumblr is @/bowielesbian for any questions/comments/concerns/Snowbaz ideas <3


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